


The Scars of Battle

by a_partofthenarrative



Category: Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_partofthenarrative/pseuds/a_partofthenarrative
Summary: There is a legend among her people that will determine whom the soul loves. But can two people fighting for absolution see the way to the truth? Soulmate AU.





	The Scars of Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for a friend on FFN. My first attempt at a Soulmate AU. There are many versions, but I like this one best for them. Enjoy.

There is a legend among her people.

As old as the land itself, the legend presents an answer to one of the greatest questions we ever face: how will I know the one I am destined to love?

The answer is this: Each person possess a mark. Some appear at birth, some are gained later in life. They may be caused naturally or as a result of their actions. The one the soul loves will posses an mirror image of that mark somewhere on their body, but not necessarily in the same place. Perhaps strangest of all, the marks will only appear after both hearts are ready and open to accept the truth. If one continues to cling to to another not meant for them, neither will ever truly be whole.

As all legends are, this one is passed down, generation by generation. It is told to daughters by their mothers while they are young, giving the recipient half a lifetime to ponder, to dream with their fellow girls when or how it may come to pass. It is shared with sons by fathers around a campfire and, while the timing is never certain, the young men of the tribe tuck it away like a valuable piece of hunting advice: not something that claims their constant attention, but rather something that will be there when the proper time is at hand.

Twelve winters have passed when she believes she has received hers. In fact, she is so certain that she has the mark memorialized with red ink on the upper part of her left arm. It is a strange one, to be sure. A full band with rivulets descending down her arm. It reminds her of the waterfall that she loves so much and she rests in the certainty that she simply must wait for her soulmate to appear.

As the years pass, she silently watches as the men of her village come and go. Some of the village boys have grown into fine warriors and often she will alter her course just so to catch a glimpse of their tribal marks, but never finds what she seeks. Even as new warriors are made or others visit from friendly nations, her efforts are all in vain, for no man that she sees posses even a similar mark or tattoo complimentary to hers, much less a mirror image. When the frustrations mount in her seventeenth year, her father only chuckles as lifts her chin with an affectionate smile. "Patience, dear one. Enjoy each moment as it comes. For all to soon, your one will come and the thrill of the search will end."

Begrudgingly, she heeds her father's advice.

In the years that follow, she does not search as she once did, but rests in the knowledge that she will find him when the time is right.

When she meets a golden-haired stranger from a far-away land, she wonders if the time has finally come and, never being one to shy away from the realm of possibilities, she tells him as much.

* * *

John Smith is sure that her tale is one of the strangest he has ever heard.

He is no stranger to fantastic tales; he has certainly heard his fair share of them in his travels and encounters with unknown cultures. But a physical mark that indicates the person meant for you? Preposterous.

But to her, it is as true as the skies above and as their friendship grows, he does not miss the errant direction of her gaze to his exposed skin. A quick glance to his exposed forearm where his sleeve is rolled slightly up or the short scan of his face and neck. Once, he swears he sees disappointment flash in her dark eyes, but it is gone as quickly as it came and the smile she is giving him now is nothing short of radiant.

She shows him her tattoo as she explains it to him, asks him if he has ever heard of such a thing. Genuine surprise colors her face as he answers in the negative. Still, it fascinates him and as she is wrapped in his arms one summer evening, he swears this is what he has waited for. Mark or no mark, she is what he wants. By the way her arms tighten around his neck and her lips press urgently back against his own, he knows she feels it too.

But when circumstances force them apart, he must face the reality that she is not meant to walk the path that he is. Her words promise future - "_I'll always be with you_"- but even then, he can see the flicker of doubt in her eyes as she knows he does not bear a mark such as hers.

Years pass. Five long years in which he is forced to fight for his life and then forced to fight for the her again. And again, they re separated by their own choices. He does not know if John Rolfe bears the mark, but her choice is made plain as day when she bids him farewell on the palace steps. Still he asks:

"Is he really the one that you are meant to be with?" _Does he mirror your soul?_

She answers with a shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not. But he can protect my people. He loves me." Meeting his eyes with her own, he is shocked to see the touch of sorrow that lingers there. "and maybe love really is nothing more than a choice."

She brushes past him then and he is powerless to do anything but silently wish her well and watch her walk away.

* * *

In the months that follow, he sees her in passing. A dinner here, a ball there. She looks content enough, peaceful and smiling on Rolfe's arm. There are moments when he swears he can feel her watching him, but every time he braves a glance at her, her attention is wholly elsewhere.

Fate cannot be deterred forever, however, and life has a funny way of bringing things as they are meant to be. He learns this firsthand one warm spring night while attending a banquet at the home of his wealthy patrons. The moon is full, the music lively and the drink flowing freely about the salon. She is there with Rolfe, both coolly acknowledging his presence with a slight nod before sweeping to the other side of the room to their place with other nobleman, leaving him to shake his head and down another glass of brandy.

The liquid tastes like fire tonight and he cannot help but sputter as his body rebels against the strong drink. The coughing fit shakes his hand, spilling the glass completely down his front and staining the fine white shirt beyond repair. With a disgusted sigh, he seeks out his host with as much dignity as he can, offering apologies and regret as he prepares to take his leave. He will not linger among this crowd looking anything less than pristine.

His regrets are flatly refused by the host. Instead, the older man flags down a servant with instruction to show the captain to a private antechamber and provide a fresh set of clothes. Tonight is about celebrating his accomplishments and the party simply cannot continue without the guest of honor.

Reluctantly, John follows the servant to an adjacent room and simply nods his thanks as the man leaves him to change. Biting back a curse, he removes his waistcoat and shrugs out of the offending shirt, taking a moment to wash any residue from his skin with the wash bin and towel. Satisfied, and grateful for gracious hosts, he shakes out the new garment and shoves one arm into the sleeve, then the other, adjusting his shoulders to be sure everything is fitting as it should.

As his fingers move to the buttons on the front, the door to the room quickly opens and slams shut a moment later. Started, he whirls with wide eyes to see who could have possibly followed him. His heart stills when he sees her, laced and stuffed into a gown of as green as the rest of her homeland.

Her breathes are quick, short gasps that are momentarily silenced when she sees him staring at her. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he allows his gaze to travel over her from head to tow, not caring in the least of his state of undress. "I could ask you the same thing."

She blinks, offering lamely. "I needed to get away for a moment. The ballroom is quite crowded, you know."

He refrains from the undignified sniff that is itching to escape. "Are you tired of him already? Is this life not all that you dreamed it would be?"

He knows the bitterness is there in his voice. He means it to be. Still, his heart aches as she crumbles slightly before his eyes. "That was cruel" she whispers. "Don't you think I wish it could be different? Don't you think that I wish I could know?"

"Your old story has failed you then, has it?"

Her brown eyes narrow, but remain dry. "Story or truth, it doesn't matter. As I said before and have learned since, no matter what, sometime love is nothing more than a choice."

Folding his arms together over his chest, he asks again, "Do you love him, Pocahontas?"

Her answer is quiet. "I have made a choice. There is nothing that either of us can say or do to change that."

"So you will pretend that we never meant anything to one another?"

"John..." It is the first time she has spoken his name in nearly a year and he drops his arms, jostling the shirt that is hanging loosely from his shoulders and unknowing bares his flesh to her gaze. "...John?"

When he turns back to face her, she reaches out to him "John, where did you get that?"

He glances down in question. "What?"

Her fingers tremble as she steps closer, so close he can smell the lavender in her hair. Her fingertips lightly brush his exposed skin, lingering on the spot over his heart. "This," she whispers, tracing the jagged line left there by Ratcliffe's friendly fire. "Where did it come from?"

He swallows thickly, attempting to separate himself from her touch. "It's the scar left by the bullet," he explained softly. "I've had it for years." Chancing a glance at her, his blue gaze becomes questioning. "Surely you didn't expect me to come away fully unscathed."

She does not answer, merely brings her brown eyes to his face and lifts her wrist for his inspection. His touch is tentative as he takes her hand, slowly turning it up and rolling the up the sleeve of her gown. Blue eyes drop from her face to her wrist and his breath catches at what he sees.

There it is. A jagged line beginning at her pulse point and running halfway down her forearm. The exact length and shape of the one displayed on his chest. The one he has carried for her all of these years. "When?" he rasped, not trusting himself to look at her.

"A month, maybe two." she answers. "It appeared right after I finally admitted to myself that I could never love Rolfe. No matter how hard I tried." She places her wrist against his heart, aligning the scars point to point and nearly laughs with delight when she sees they are a perfect reflection against each other.

She looks up at him with tears brimming her lashes. "I was wrong, John Smith. It is you."

"It always has been," are the only words that escape before he claims her mouth. For the first time in nearly a decade, he kisses her, his larger hand covering hers where it rests against his chest.

When he pulls away, she is drawn fully into his arms and they hold each other tightly. The road to this moment has been long and hard, filled with many twists and turns, but the destination has always been the same. Be it fate, destiny, or the truth behind the legends of old, it no longer matters. They have walked through the fire and came out of the battle stronger for it.

Finally, after so much time, they are home.


End file.
